


(soul) on ice

by coffeeandoranges



Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: Dysfunctional Family, Erik: area man hopefully unlearning misogyny at some point, Family Feels, Gen, T'Challa is a good king, Wakanda Is Better At Things, if you want to read it as T'Cherik that's between you and your god I guess, shameless fix-it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-02-22
Packaged: 2019-03-22 10:37:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13762332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeandoranges/pseuds/coffeeandoranges
Summary: Things are weird between us right now. They're gonna be real weird for a while.In which Killmonger lives, because the justified rage of the oppressed deserves a seat at the table.





	(soul) on ice

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my beta for this work, [damnslippyplanet](http://archiveofourown.org/users/damnslippyplanet).

 

Ice.

 

At least that’s what he thinks it is. He’s seen a lot of strange shit since coming to Wakanda—tasted it even. That potion they tipped into his mouth. The whole covering-dirt thing.

Maybe that’s what the ancestors showed them how to do. One of the many things. He wouldn’t know. Not his country. Not his religion.

He’s cold.

There are voices.

Women’s voices.

 _Her_ voice.

Not her voice. She was dead. He hadn’t stopped to think about it. One bullet. One less problem. One step closer to the so-called king of Wakanda.

Not his problem.

He tries to roll over.

He can’t.

It really is ice.

He’s not sure if he’s dead or if this is another freaky vision.

He goes back to sleep.

 

 

He used to think that Heaven, if it was real, would look like Wakanda.

There was a time, a brief, secret time after he found out about the place but before they killed his father, when he used to imagine what it would be like to live there. It was great. Until he remembered Wakanda _was_ real, and they didn’t give a fuck about him.

And he would wake up.

 

 

In between sleeping, there are hands. Hands that run over his knuckles, that tend to the gaping hole in his chest.

It feels good but it aches.

At one point he twitches, his body shudders, and the hand falls away. Then he wants it all back.

He never wants it to stop.

 

 

Beneath the heat of ice, shame.

 

And then nothing.

 

And then relief.

 

 

He opens his eyes. He is definitely, definitely still in Wakanda. People are milling around him in immaculate dress and speaking with those soft accents.

 

 

Then he remembers – T’Challa.

 

T'Challa’s face, far away, on the other side of the train. Then closer, regretful, as he slid a spear into Erik’s guts.

That part Erik remembers.

 

 

After a while he remembers more: T'Challa’s arm around his shoulders, bearing him up. Lifting him.

Erik tries to tell him: _I don’t belong in a cage._

_Don’t keep me there._

_Don’t keep me alive for there._

T'Challa’s brow furrowing, as he says:

_That’s not where we are going._

 

“What’s your name?”

“Erik.” It comes out so easily, effortlessly. They’re testing him to see if he’s awake.

“Your real name.”

“N’Jadaka.” It should be true, but it sounds like a lie too. “Who wants to know?”

He opens his eyes.

 

 

 

The princess.

It’s Shuri.

Erik braces instantly for combat. He doesn’t have to think about it. It’s something he just does. His body, always ready.

“What are you doing to me?”

Shuri looks up from some data she’s analyzing. “What do you think I’m doing, dumbass?”

She gives him a cool look, like, _Are you for real?_

She doesn’t seem to have those rocket hands things she had last time, and she isn’t pointing anything dangerous at him, so Erik thinks it over.

“You didn’t kill me.”

Shuri shoots him another weird look. “We don’t do that here.”

“You gonna send me to jail?”

“We don’t do that here either.”

“Huh. That’s funny. Y’all didn’t seem to be that concerned before,” he says. “When your brother was trying to kill me.”

“My brother saved your life.” She all but hisses at him through her teeth.

Erik laughs. “And you think that was a mistake.”

The smartass drops from Shuri’s face, and she just looks like a girl. Big brown eyes.

Young.

“So what are you gonna do with me?” he says.

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t like, ‘I don’t know,’” says Erik. “Wake me up when you do know.”

He pauses. “Or just get it over with.”

“I’m not gonna kill you,” she says.

“You sure? You seem kind of pissed.”

“Listen,” she says, with a jut of her chin. “ _You_ tried to kill me.”

“So?” he says.

“Things are weird, between us, right now,” says Shuri at last. “They’re gonna be real weird for a while.”

She fidgets with one of her bracelets. “Doesn’t mean I want to kill you.”

“Then why am I here?”

Her lower lip trembles. But she looks up. Looks him in the eye.

“I healed you.”

 

 

They leave him alone for a while.

 

He thinks of all the ice-related references he can make.

_Soul on ice._

_You’re as cold as ice, you’re willing to sacrifice…_

 

The ice itself comes off, on what he later learns is his third day here. The wound has closed up, left behind a little greyish scar, another one. One of many.

They don’t seem to want to let him leave the room but they don’t stop him either.

 

T'Challa is waiting for him, sitting in a chair outside his door.

He’s slumped forward-- Erik’s not sure he’s ever seen him slouch-- knees spread apart, hands folded. Like he’s worried. Like this was any other hospital room in the world. Family waiting outside.

“Why did you do that?” Erik says. “Why not let me die?”

T'Challa turns his head to look at Killmonger.

Erik doesn’t relent. “It’d be less problems for you, right? One less problem?”

“You are awake,” T'Challa says. It’s all he says.

“Yeah,” says Erik. “Pretty sure your sister wanted to chuck me over the waterfalls.”

“And she did not,” says T'Challa.

“Yeah, and I didn’t ask for that,” says Erik. “From you, or from her.”  

“No,” says T'Challa.

“Then tell me,” says Erik. “Why am I here?”

T'Challa’s expression settles into something like sadness. Same big eyes as his sister.

“I think that would be obvious.”

“Yeah, some family reunion we’re having.” Erik spreads his arms. “This is great.”

“It is not only that,” says T'Challa. “This is your country too.”

“Yeah, where everyone hates me? I’ll pass.”

“You are under no obligation to stay.”

“What, and let you haul me before some tribunal? Do some ritual?”

“Nothing of the sort,” says T'Challa.

“I don’t buy that. Y’all don’t want me here. Your sister doesn’t want me here. She as good as told me.”  

“There has been a loss of trust,” says T'Challa. There is an edge in his voice. “You cannot blame her for that.”

“So I gotta bow and scrape and beg forgiveness? I don’t think so,” says Erik. “I could go home and do that.”

“Then go,” says T'Challa. “You have a home here, and you may always return to it. This is all I wanted to tell you.”

He springs up from his chair.

He looks back at Erik. “I hope you choose to stay. I cannot make you.”

He sounds close to tears.

“And yes, we have rituals. You can speak to our ancestors, and yours, about anything. Everything that has happened. But that is your decision too.”

Erik doesn’t know what to say.

A voice in the back of his head says, _of course I’ll stay._ _Of course I’ll set it right._ But it’s not loud enough.

“I will have my ship ready for you,” says T'Challa. “You can take it anywhere in the world. It will be ready at 15 hours.”

He indicates some kind of spinning contraption on the wall.

 _Oh. That’s a_ clock _? Not a nuclear reactor then._

Erik nods slowly.

T'Challa starts to leave. He stops.

 

“And N’Jadaka?” T'Challa says. “Not everyone hates you.”

 

3 PM comes.

 

It passes.

 

He does what he’s done since he was a kid: he paces. The room is too small for his thoughts.

 

It’s 6 PM.

 

His heart settles in his throat. He goes to the docks, where the ship will be parked.

If it’s still there.

 

And it is. 

And it’s T'Challa’s ship. 

He can tell just by looking.   

The ship is pure Wakandan, built to stun. Technology way beyond anything he ever flew in black ops.    

In spite of himself, he smiles a little bit. _Hold up, I got a spaceship._

He wonders if they know he can fly or not. He’s not sure who he’ll find in the cockpit or how they’ll feel about him.

But when he gets up there, there’s no one.

He’s blissfully, mercilessly alone.

His hands settle on the controls. They’re warm to the touch. Like a living creature. He touches each control, fascinated. Maps pop up, full of coordinates.

All of it powered by vibranium.  

 _Anywhere in the world_ , T'Challa had said.

But where would he even want to go? Anywhere he went would be the same problems. He wants to go to Wakanda, but the Wakanda he wants doesn’t exist.

He thinks about staying. Accepting T'Challa’s offer. Biding his time. Then when the time is right, mounting an insurrection.

His fingers clench around the controls. He wonders if there’s weapons attached to this craft.  

Yes.

They’re disabled.

 _Shuri_ , he thinks.

 

Her face swims in front of him, her wounded face like a child’s even though she’s sixteen. Kids grow up slow here. They have time to grow.

 

 _Nah_. He’s done trying to get the throne. They don’t trust him here.  

Even if he won this time, they’d turn on him the second he turned his back. They proved it. He won’t give them a chance to do it twice.

 

Damn loyalty. Tradition.

 

He’ll go out in a blaze of glory.

 

With this ship, he could take out the CIA, the FBI. Fly over Annapolis. Open fire over the White House, _Independence Day_ style. Just do something. Not justice but something.

Of course the weapons are disabled, but he can get around that. It’ll take time but he’ll get around it.

 

He’s got nothing but time.

 

He falls asleep in the captain’s chair, making plans.

 

He sleeps with his hand on his chest, right on the place where he used to strap his semi-automatic in Iraq.

 His scars. He needs to add four more. For the arms dealer. For the priestess. The Dora Milaje. For _her_.  

 

The scars are softer than the skin around them.

 

He wakes up to a blinding African sunrise.

 

He’s still in Wakanda.

 

He’s hungry, he realizes. The sleep has cleared his head.

 

And he’s getting restless, alone. When he’s alone too long he talks to himself.

“There any food on here?” he says to the empty ship.

There is food, he knows. The ship has a fully-stocked kitchen he saw on the way in, complete with some kind of high-tech stove that double as a flamethrower or something.

He peers into the refrigerator. It’s full of fruit vacuum-sealed to peak freshness --some of it still growing in its own soil-- as well as what looks like half a goat’s worth of meat.

But--

“Damn, I just want some eggs.”

After rooting around for a minute, he finds some. And they are-- thankfully-- just eggs. No superpowers.

He eats them right out of the pan.

He’s just about to scrape the last of it when some light starts blinking at him from the cockpit.

 

It’s the communicator beads. 

As soon as he picks one up, an image of T'Challa’s face shimmers and unfurls in mid-air.

T'Challa doesn’t look good. He looks tired. Erik doesn’t know how he looks.

“N’Jadaka,” T'Challa says. “You’re still here.”

Erik raises an eyebrow. “I guess you’re tracking me, huh?”

“I don’t want you to leave yet.” T'Challa says it plaintively, with the same tone he had before. “Please.”

“I thought you said I could do what I want.”

“I just want to talk to you,” says T'Challa. He looks at Erik hopelessly. “I - I am pleading with you.”

Erik stares at him.

“I have something to ask you,” says T'Challa.

The tears that have been threatening since yesterday burst and fall down his cheeks.

“Please, cousin.”

“Don’t call me that,” says Erik.

It feels good, to deny him something he hasn’t earned.

 

But then he hears himself say: “Where do you want to meet?”

 

 

“I want you to listen first,” says T'Challa’s voice. “Can you do that? Can you promise me that?”

They are in his sister’s laboratory.

T'Challa looks more rested today, his expression calm and focused. It would be a bad day to challenge him, were N’Jadaka still looking for a fight. 

A part of him still is.

“Nah, I can’t promise you that,” Erik says. “Need to know what you’re asking me first.”

T'Challa sighs.

“You are not going to make things easy, are you,” the king says, almost to himself. He rubs his face.

“I can leave--”

“Why?” T'Challa interrupts him. His gaze is level, dead-center, making Erik feel exposed.

“-- if you don’t want me here.” Erik finishes.

The words hang in the air.

 

T'Challa shakes his head.

“I don’t know what to tell you, cousin,” says T'Challa. “I said everything I can possibly say. I told you that I hope you stay, and I meant it. But I will never force you to do anything. You’ve been forced to do too much. I can see that. It has hurt you.”

T'Challa touches his shoulder, looks at him with sincerity that’s almost painful.

“And I am so sorry you were hurting,” he says. “I am sorry we were not there. I wish I had known. It would have been different if I’d known. But I _never_ knew, N’Jadaka. My father never told me. You must believe me about this.”

Erik is silent, a little stunned. He wants to deny it, his mind rebelling against the word _hurt_.

“And I cannot protect you from the consequences of your actions either,” says T'Challa. “You killed an officer of the Dora Milaje. She was much loved. And as long as you are here, some people will look at you and only see her killer. I will not lie to you. But as long as I am king, they cannot hurt you. I won’t let you be hurt again.”   

Erik’s mouth has gone very dry. He looks at this very good man-- ( _is he a good man? Can he be a good man? Is he good in a way Erik is not?_ Erik doesn’t like to think in those terms, those binaries) -- and wonders if he’s lying.

“I don’t want to hear your promises,” says Erik.

 

T'Challa looks down.

He nods.    

 

“Alright,” T'Challa says. “Just watch this.”

 

T'Challa presses a button at one of Shuri’s consoles and a screen appears, with what looks like a news clip queued up.

 

The news jingle plays, white newscasters announce the name of the broadcast. Then their image is whisked away and they’re watching footage of what looks like every big government briefing Erik ever attended.

The UN.

T'Challa is behind the podium.

“Not to hide our resources,” T'Challa is saying. “But to _share_ them.”

 

A white hand goes up in the crowd. “Pardon me for asking, but what does an impoverished east African nation--”

 

Erik’s jaw drops as T'Challa unveils Wakanda’s wealth to the world.

Its technology. The cities. The electromagnetic trains.

 

“You stupid fuck--” Erik starts to say.

T'Challa cuts him off with a finger. “Watch.”

 

“That’s not all,” the newscaster is saying back at the front desk. “The king of Wakanda has also pledged a multibillion dollar initiative aimed at reducing poverty in at-risk communities worldwide.”

The news footage changes.

 

It’s _Oakland._

 

Children, smiling with T'Challa. Holding up iPhones with Shuri.

 

Says the voiceover: “The first outreach center has been announced in Oakland, California, making waves in Washington and raising the question: how will the world react, and what’s next for Wakanda?”

 

“Invasion,” mutters Erik.

Colonization. Strip-mining resources. What the West always does in Africa. Erik sees tanks rolling through the streets. 

 

But beside him, T'Challa is beaming.

 

T'Challa pauses the broadcast.

“You were right, cousin,” says T'Challa. “We have been isolated for too long.”

 

Erik struggles to speak.

 

“And this,” Erik says. “This is your big plan.”

 

The corners of T'Challa’s mouth turn up. “Part of it.”

 

“We’re gonna die,” says Erik. “They’ve got half the State department trying to figure out how to invade us right now.”

“No, they don’t,” says T'Challa. “Look _closely_.”

 

T'Challa replays the clip.

 

The UN, the podium, the announcement. 

The footage of trains and Wakandan cities.

 

“Look at the technology, cousin,” T'Challa says. “What we chose to show them.”

 

This time, he sees.

 

“No vibranium,” he says. “None of the technology--”

 

“They do not know about the mines,” T'Challa says. “They will never know. At least, not on a mass scale.”

 

T'Challa’s eyes mist over.  “Only our people will know. Who we are. What we have here.”

 

“Black people only,” says N’Jadaka. He folds his arms. Can’t help but smile. 

“Just so,” his cousin says.

 

N’Jadaka looks at his cousin’s face.

 

“There is more,” says T'Challa. “Something I wanted to ask you.”

 

He takes out the golden claws.

Presses them into N’Jadaka’s hands.

 

 

“I have a job for you,” he says. “If you want it.”

 

Erik has already tightened his grip.

 

“Not the Panther,” says T'Challa quickly. “I am the Black Panther, and I’m afraid I will never give it up, not even for you. I have been chosen by our people, and I have a job to do.” 

T'Challa looks him in the eye. “But so do you, if you will have it.”

“Whatever it is, yes,” says Erik.

 

The claws feel good in his hands.

 

“I want you to think about it,” T'Challa insists. “There will be rules you must follow if you wear that suit. What I am offering you is a position of honor. I do not offer it lightly.”

Erik looks back to T'Challa. “So, what is it?”

“I want you to be the Protector of Wakanda.”

“The protector of Wakanda.” N’Jadaka rolls the words around on his tongue. “And what is that?”

“ _Who_ is that,” replies T'Challa. “Who it is, is _you._ It must be you.”

“So... I’m going to wear a suit and do good deeds and all of that?”

“No,” says T'Challa. “I want you to lead a reserve force. You and General Okoye. You are right to be worried about Wakanda, now that we have shared who we are with the world. We must protect ourselves.”

N’Jadaka nods. “You’re right about that.”

“My cousin. What happened here, on this continent, while Wakanda turned a blind eye-- it must never happen again,” says T'Challa. “Never, ever again.”

T'Challa looks like he might burst into tears again.

“If the colonizers come again-- if they find out about our resources-- our _real_ resources-- you may be the only one who can protect us. Our people. All of our people.”

“So, not that I disagree with you,” says N’Jadaka. “But I’m not the UN press conference type.”

“I know,” says T'Challa. “Which is why, if the colonizers come--”

“I’m not talking to them,” N’Jadaka interjects. “I don’t give a fuck about their feelings-- world peace-- whatever-- ”

 

“I’m not asking you to.”

 

T'Challa’s face is deadly calm.

 

“If the colonizers return to Africa again,” the king says. “Or Wakanda. If they steal our wealth-- if they try to kill our people-- I am asking you to do something for me.”

 

“What?”

 

Says T'Challa: “Kill them without mercy.”

 

 

N’Jadaka smiles.

 

“Wakanda is the most advanced nation on earth,” says T'Challa. “We are generous. We are forgiving. But we do not forget.” 

His hand clenches into a fist.

 

“You say the word,” says N’Jadaka.

“Not now,” says T'Challa. “We are trusting now. Cautious but curious. We have been isolated for too long and we need to understand the world and they need to understand us.”

“The outreach centers,” he adds. “That is not their whole function, but a part of it. This is how I will offer safe passage to Wakanda for any of our people who need it.”

“An underground railroad,” says N’Jadaka.

T'Challa nods.

“If any of this is threatened, I may not be able to protect Wakanda,” says T'Challa. “They will go after me first. This is when I will need you. If I am killed, you will be given command of our weapons and the reserves you will build with Okoye.”

N’Jadaka tilts his head, thinking.

 

“A kill switch for the end of the world.”

 

“Yes,” says T'Challa. “But even if this does not happen I will need you. There are too many people like Klaue who have harmed us, who walk in the world without facing justice. I want you and Nakia to find them.” 

“And then what?” says N’Jadaka. “We give them to the UN? To America?”

“You will bring them home, where they will face Wakandan justice right here,” says T'Challa. He shrugs. “If they live.”

Erik laughs.

“And I will need you to keep an eye on Ross,” says T'Challa. “He knows too much. He could hurt us.”

“Spying on the CIA,” says N’Jadaka. “Damn. I like it.”

“If he moves against us…”

Erik bites his lip. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“Yes,” says T'Challa. “He cannot tell anyone about the vibranium mines. This is imperative. If he were to break faith with us, he would have to be stopped at all costs.”

N’Jadaka grins. “License to kill.”

T'Challa’s expression turns serious.

“I have told Okoye and Nakia about this plan,” he says. “About your role in it. I believe they will work with you, but you must ask them first. I need you to think about what it means if they say yes. How you will react if they say no.”

Erik feels a twinge in his gut.

T'Challa pauses. “If nothing else, you have W’Kabi to support you.”

“Things are gonna be weird right now,” says N’Jadaka, remembering. “They’ll be weird for a while.”   

T'Challa looks relieved to hear N’Jadaka say it out loud. “I think they will be.”

 

“You trust me?” asks N’Jadaka.

 

“I have to,” says T'Challa.

 

Then anger comes into his face, shading his mild features.

“If you ever touch my sister again…”

 

N’Jadaka feels his throat tighten.

 

 

He looks down.

“I understand,” he says at last.

 

“She is my life,” T'Challa says, so quietly he can barely hear him.

 

 

“Think about what I am offering,” says T'Challa, as he leaves N’Jadaka alone in Shuri’s laboratory. “You do not have to say yes. But I hope you will consider it.”

 

 

 

 

N’Jadaka, son of N’Jobu, stands in a laboratory in Wakanda with the lights off, watching the golden claws of the Black Panther suit-- now the suit of the Protector of Wakanda-- gleam in the darkness.

 

He approaches the suit.

 

Touches it.

 

Pure gold and vibranium from the heart of Africa.

 

How can he say anything but yes?

 

Yes I will. Yes.

 

_Kill them without mercy._

 

_What happened here must never happen again._

 

Tears roll hot down his cheeks.

 

_I’ve been training for this my whole life._

And he has.

 

 

The suit looks like him. Like everything he is: warrior, prophet, killer and king. 

A protector.

 

He puts it on.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Due to the response this has gotten (??? and thank you) I just wanted to say everyone is welcome to use this concept of Erik as protector of Wakanda in your own fanfics. You do not have to credit me. Thanks!


End file.
